Valentine: Escaping the Snow
by Elzbun
Summary: Valentine always wondered what the world was like beyond the walls of her prison, and she'd come to accept that she'd probably die before finding out. Until a man in black robes saved her. She learns that she is a witch, and that she'll have a new home at a magical school called Hogwarts. She must learn how to be a witch, and how to be a normal child, which is surprisingly hard.


Okay, well, this chapter is going to be very graphic. So I warn you now.

this is the first chapter of a long winded fanfic, as I plan to go through all the Harry potter books Eventually. I have basically written the whole of this book but I'm re-writing a lot of the beginning so I can't post it all yet. But if any of this intrigues you please hold out for more-I have big plans for my little OC.

please be kind with critics

enjoy...kinda~~

Chapter 1

Ground drained of colour and warmth. As far as the sky can see. White against black overhead, never ending. The frozen winding trail of what should normally have been a river seems to have carved its way through the never ending white, like a snake in the sand. Along the trail of this snake in the snow you'd be able to see various spots of light. Lights of a civilization, no matter how small it seemed, it certainly was a change from the surrounding landscape. It was Warmth. Alive.

On the edge of one of the many small villages, on the little the banks of the river, was a popular tavern. In fact, it was the only one for miles around. Of course it was popular. What's second best to a fire to warm you? Liquor. On this night, the occupants of the bar where particularly rowdy, their drunken songs and jeers almost shaking the small rickety building.

Inside the building, it was a typical alcohol influenced scene, no matter what country one was in. On the right side of the room was a wooden bar, packed with men huddled in their dark thick costs, perched quite precariously on bar stools. The room was filled with the smoke of cigars, the stench being enough to make ones eyes water upon entering the room. The only thing that was noticeably different from what would be considered normal from an outsiders point of view was the occasional glimpse of golden hair from between the large mass of bodies. The owner of the hair was tiny, even while standing up you would be lucky to get a glance at the child at which adorned the pale locks.

Her existence was simply a rumour outside of the tavern. She had never been seen outside of it, only seen by the frequents of the tavern. Some people in the towns say she's a myth, others a street child or some…a ghost of a dead infant. She particularly liked that last rumour. To not been seen…what a joy that talent would be. As the child was zipping back and forth between the bar and the faithful customers, delivering drinks and taking orders and instructions one of the tables took note of the child.

"девушка (Girl)!" One of the two men barked when she was in hearing range, over the noise in the room. She hurried over to where she was summoned, having delivered the glasses to their destination on another table.

The two men sat around the round wooden table, both staring at the girl with keen interest.

"Мой, что мало, что вы есть!" (My, what a little thing you are!) The rugged looking man on the left said, leaning forward to expect her more closely. As the girl took in their faces, she realized they were new, which make her insides cold with worry. Regulars she could handle, but new comers? They where a different matter entirely. They didn't know the rules…regulars knew not to stare at her too closely… not to touch her…these men did not. But she stared at the floor dutifully. She was a good girl.

She was small thing, even for her age of ten, standing at only 4 foot 7, not to mention her small under nourished frame. "Посмотрите на меня ребенка." (Look at me child.) The man spoke again, taking her jaw into his rough grip. She bit her lip from crying out in a panic. Both the men's eyes widened as they got a clear view of the child's dirt smudgedface. Large caramel eyes, even in the dim light seemed to glow, stared back at the man anxiously. The man's dark eyes studied her face for a moment, before letting go of her chin.

"Сколько тебе лет девочка?" (How old are you girl?)

"десять…" (Ten…) The man grinned and grabbed her wrist, his whole hand being able to wrap around her wrist. She dropped the tray that was in her other hand in surprise. She struggled against the mans grip but it proved pointless, as he was so much stronger then her.

"Тише ребенок! Там нет необходимости пугаться, мы просто хотим, чтобы играть." (Hush child! There's no need to be frightened, we just want to play.)

"Н-нет - п-пожалуйста! Вы с-не могу!" (N-no—p-please! You c-can't!) She struggled harder, breath coming out faster and the fear set in. They were in the dark shaded corner of the tavern, no one was looking. No one would see. The men both laughed at her feeble struggles.

"Я не могу? Разве так говорить с ценного клиента? Тогда придите. Подавать меня." (I can't? Is that any way to talk to a valuable customer? Come now. Serve me.) His heavy hand rested on her ribcage, trying to tug her closer, and it was working despite her efforts.

"П-пожалуйста ..." (P-please…) She cried tearfully.

Suddenly a hand came down onto that of the customer, the mans eyes snapping up to stare at the looming figure over her shoulder. Her senses were drenched in ice-cold fear, her body suddenly feeling numb.

There was a click and the room fell silent. Отец held his weapon in his hand, the barrel mere inches at the head of the customer. The customers face went from anger to fear in a second and he scrambled back in his chair. The acid stench of his and his companions fear reached her nose and she tried not to gag on it.

"оставлять." (Leave.) Отец said stiffly, dark eyes hard and unwavering. The two men couldn't get out fast enough, the rest of the tavern watching on with knowing eyes. They knew better.

When the two men had left Отец lowered the gun and suddenly the sound talk and conversations resumed in the tavern as though nothing had ever happened. He took hold of her upper arm in a bruising grip as he turned and started to drag her across the room.

"Я-я с-жаль- " (I-I'm s-sorry-)

"тихо." (Quite.) Her mouth closed with a snap, covering her mouth with her other had as tears streamed down her face. His grip didn't loosen, in fact it tightened even further, and she tried to muffle a whimper in pain. He led her to the locked storeroom behind the bar, where the stock and various supplies were kept. He pushed her in there with such force she fell, scraping her hands and knees. She stayed on the floor, as Отец locked the door, and cradled the bruising print on her forearm, shoulders hunched and eyes on the floor. Отец turned to her, striding over to catch her jaw in his unyielding grip, yanking her face up to face him.

"До. " (Up.) Her eyes instantly flew to his, her own teary gaze reflected in his cold orbs. "Перестань плакать. Вы знаете, как некрасиво это заставляет вас выглядеть. " (Stop crying. You know how ugly it makes you look.) She bit her lip till she tasted blood, trying to stop the stream of salty tears in their tracks. He studied her face for a moment, before his lip twisted in disgust and he let go of her jaw roughly.

"Колени. Сейчас." (Knees. Now.) She got down stiffly onto her knees on the cold concrete floor, wincing as a particularly bad bruise on her hip flared with pain. Отец undid his belt, the sharp clacks of metal clanking shockingly loud in the quite room, the sound of the crowd outside muffled by the heavy concrete walls. The air was cold and frigid, her breath coming out like white fluffy clouds.

Отец let his trousers drop to the floor. She stared. Hard. Red. Angry.

"-" (Open.)

He used her mouth until she chocked.

A week had gone by since the new customers had left. Although a few nights ago a new customer started coming in the evening. He looked like no one she'd ever seen before. His eyes watched her all night, every night for the past two days. From the corner of the room, at one of the few booths in the tavern, he sat. He wasn't from around here, that much was obvious. His skin was pale, but that wasn't so unusual around here. What was strange was how he was dressed, from head to toe in black, long robe-like clothes. He had shoulder length black hair, and crooked hooked nose and nighttime coloured eyes. Whenever she walked past his table she felt something like…a shiver. He never spoke to her, even when she asked him what he would like for her to get him. He just stared.

When the time finally came for her to come to his table this night, she felt nervous, his eyes having a certain intenseness this time that the other nights lacked. She approached his table slowly, stopping just in front of it, holding the tray and some kind of shield in front of her body.

"Гм ... вы бы хотели что-нибудь выпить, сэр?" (Um…would you like something to drink, sir?) She asked in a quiet voice. He was holding himself tensely, and his mouth seemed to be tightly pinched. She waited a few seconds for his reply before assuming that, like usual, he didn't want anything. She turned to leave-

"Как тебя зовут?" (What is your name?) She stopped short and turned back around with wide eyes. His voice seemed to have a strange nasal drawl. It was…gentle, but his accent was odd. He wasn't from around here; he's not even Russian.

Alright. She was confused. No one had ever asked her that before, so why now was this man, who had before never said a word, asking for her name?

"V-Valentine…" She all but whispered, her eyes wide and searching. He nodded.

"Вам здесь нравится?" (Do you like it here?) Valentine hesitated. Why would he be asking her this? No one had ever asked her that.

She shook her head in answer, staring at the table in front of her, refusing to meet his eyes. The man rested his arms on the table and leant forward.

"Если бы вы могли, вы бы покинуть это место?" (If you could, would you leave this place?) She looked up sharply. His eyes held her gaze steadily, studying her face. All she had ever known was this. She had never thought about what she'd do if she could leave.

She nodded eagerly. The man looked a little relieved at her answer.

"Я вернусь." (I will be back.)

He stood up from the table, and Valentine's mouth gaped open slightly, wanting desperately to say something, but nothing came out, words would not form. He was very tall, taller than Отец. With one more glance the strange man left.

For the past ten years, she had lived in the storage room behind the bar. The place she slept was a collection of blankets in the far right hand side of the room, around some of the more permanent storage boxes. She'd liked the smell of the wood and cotton, draped the blankets around to form a sort of cocoon of protection from the rest of the cold room. She was curled up into a ball against the wall, her arms wrapped around her skinny legs, the filthy brown dress that resembled a sack more than an article of clothing, did nothing to keep her warm. The only thing that kept it from falling from her tiny shoulders was a piece of rope tied around her chest, to keep it supported. She shivered, a tiny tremor running through her body. Her body ached, and although she was familiar with the pain, it was sharper then usual. Recently Отец had been beating her harder. It had started about two months ago. His pale face had been darkened with anger as he raged and roared with anger. On that night, he had beaten her so hard that she had blacked out for the rest of the day. In the days that followed, she had not been able to move. Now, ever since then, he had beaten her or used her nearly every night since. It was always some form of punishment. She had not known why until three days ago. The first night the dark haired man started turning up.

She had been disposing of the soot and burned out firewood in the fire place, when she had noticed a piece of paper not fully burned hidden under the grate the wood sat on, only slightly charred. It had writing on it. Отец had previously that night thrown a bundle of letters into the fire viciously, puce with anger.

She was not that good at reading, but she'd been taught the basics when she was little, but she knew enough to recognize her own name. Some of the kinder patrons of the bar would purposefully leave material behind for her to study or read to their companions something they found interesting, loud enough for her to hear.

'Valentine' was what was written on the slither of paper. Someone from the outside world…knew she existed. But apart from the regulars, who knew about her? And only one person knew her name, and that was Отец.

Oh…but that strange man did too…

Her stomach twisted sharply and a sinking feeling settled in her chest, like dead weight. Отец obviously didn't like those letters…whoever was writing these…it was causing her to be punished more than she could ever remember. Of course they couldn't know what the effect of sending the letters had on her…but she wanted them to stop…she hoped they stopped…

If she didn't reply, surely after a period of time they would just give up? She would have. Either way the whole thing was making her miserable…well…more so than usual.

She stayed curled in a ball for what must have been hours, but sleep did not come. She stared at her hands; curling and uncurling them, trying to get the blood flow back into the icy digits. Sometimes when she couldn't sleep she imagined she was somewhere else. Somewhere warm. Yes. She liked the warmth. Somewhere not surrounded by the blankets of endless white, somewhere she wasn't trapped. Somewhere happy…where she'd be happy. She wouldn't hurt, and she wouldn't cry…

But it was just a dream. She knew that. She would never be free. She'd never leave this life, as it was the only one she deserved. She had no talents, no real use except servicing Отец. And she wasn't even good enough at that to please him…

She bit her lip to try and suppress the tears that threatened to spill over. Rubbing her eyes harshly she sat up to inspect the new set of bruises on her knees, an ugly purple, green tinged around the edges. She poked it a few times.

"Hmm…" She frowned. Well that sure did hurt.

A loud crash echoed beyond the metal door of the room and she startled, quickly pressing herself against the wall at the door burst open, banging against the wall with a BANG. Отец stood in the doorway, paper clutched in one fist, the other holding a mostly empty alcohol bottle, face red with fury.

"Кто ты разговаривал с вами маленькая сучка!" (Who have you been talking to you little bitch!)He was upon her in three strides, grabbing her short hair in his hand and wrenching her up. She cried out in pain, clutching desperately at his wrists.

"Н-нет один! Клянусь Отец, клянусь!" (N-no one! I swear Отец, I swear!) Pain flared her senses as her hair was pulled viciously from her skull.

"Ты лжешь! Я знаю, что ты лжешь!" (You're lying! I know you're lying!) He snarled, throwing her to the ground roughly. He straddled her stomach, holding her hands above her head. She stared into the dark eyes of Отец, heart pounding and fear freezing her limbs. "Это было настолько большим носом ублюдок не так ли? Я видел, как ты говорил с ним!" (It was that big nosed bastard wasn't it? I saw you talking to him!) She wailed helplessly, his grip so tight on her wrist that her bones were creaking under the pressure. "Ваш мое! Ты слышишь меня? Ваш гребаный принадлежит мне!" (Your mine! Do you hear me? Your fucking belong to me!) He roared in her face. She whimpered, turning her face away from him, trying to hide.

"После всего, что я сделал для вас, и это, как вы отплатить мне? Удалившись себя вне к первым иностранцем, который идет через эту чертову дверь?" (After everything I've done for you, and this is how you repay me? Whoring yourself out to a the first foreigner that walks through the fucking door?)

"Н-нет! Я-" (N-no! I—)

"Шлюхи предназначены для трахал, а не говорить!" (Whores are meant to be fucked, not talk!) A deafening crack erupted into the quite room as Отец's fist made contact with her cheek, breaking something. She bit her lip to try and stifle the scream that erupted from her, knowing she'd be hurt even more if she made any more noise. But that seemed to spur Отец on even more, like it was a game, trying to draw more and more pained noises out of her.

She closed her eyes as tight as she could, refusing to look at him, and although she couldn't see what he was doing, she felt every blow, every crack, every sickening crunch. Her face, her rib cage, her legs.

Punch. Kick. Crack. The endless cycle of pain. Never ending. It was always more painful than she remembered.

- It's gets pretty graphic past here so if you can't tolerate it please skip until you find this weird line thingies again,

Suddenly he wrenched her dress up over her chest, and she could feel him shifting on top of her before the weight of him was abruptly off. She sucked in a huge breath, panting lightly, not realizing her breathing had been altered with him no top of her. She peeked one eye open only to let out a pitiful little whimper seeing Отец undoing his belt buckle and pulling his trousers down just far enough to reveal his pudgy red member, glaring at her angrily. Grabbing her calf's in a bruising grip he forces her legs open and dragged her to him.

"Маленькие шлюхи, как вы только просят, чтобы быть разорвана," (Little whores like you are just begging to be torn open,) He muttered, beading eyes staring down between her legs with a look of hunger. She thought she might be sick. He lined himself up and slowly pushed in, letting out a long drawn groan. Pain blazed up her spine, and wet head (no doubtingly blood) seeped down her thighs as he forced his way into her. It was like being split in two, and hurt even worse every time, making her silently beg that one day he'll hit her head that extra little bit harder and then it would be sweet oblivion forever more.

Отец's thrusts were brutal and un-yielding. The only sound was the slap of skin against skin, and the mans grunting and ragged breathing. It seemed to last forever. As his thrusts became even fast and brutal, the pain slowly started to ebb away, to leave and stomach churning numbness in its place.

His breath was hot and putrid as he gasped and groaned in her ear, giving her neck a sharp nip, no doubt to leave a mark. He leant back to look down at her, pulling her harder and harder down onto his stabbing member. Their eyes met and she poured all of her hatred and anger and pain into that gaze but he just grinned at her, a mess of ugly yellow teeth, a few missing. He bent over her, one hand resting on the stone floor next to her head, the other working around her throat, pressing slowly until she could barely breath.

"Вы, кажется, забыв свое место, шлюха," (You seem to be forgetting your place, whore,) He said quietly. "Вам нужно преподать урок." (You need to be taught a lesson.) His pace never stopped, slamming into her time and time again.

- it should be fine from here, I think.

"В следующий раз, что большой носом пизда приходит сюда," (Next time that big nosed cunt comes in here,) His leant his face close to hers, where she was able to smell the alcohol on his breath. "Я убью его." (I'll kill him.)

Panic flared in her chest, eyes going wide as her air supply was finally cut off completely. It was a fluttering sensation, making her thoughts erratic and confusing, but all she could think about was:

He's my only chance—he cant die—I'll be left here—I will not die here!

Отец was no longer pinning her hands to the floor, and seeing the abandoned alcohol bottle on the floor next to them, she lurched sideways as Отец got closer to his release, she grabbed the handle before slamming it down onto Отец's head as hard as she could, the glass shattering upon impact.

There was a moment silence where everything seemed to stand still for minutes when actually it was probably only a few seconds.

And then he slumped down, arms falling out from under him, 230 pounds of a man covering her 80 pound small body. The breath whooshed out of her and wept as she struggled under the unconscious man. She bucked up, trying to dislodge him from on top of her, his heavy weight putting strain on her ribs. Finally the man slumped sideways, freeing her torso and she could breathe again, huge gasping breaths. She frantically tugged and wiggled until her legs were finally free from under him and then scrambled away as quick as possible until she was pressed against the crates on the other side of the room.

Her heartbeat was deafening in her ears, thundering away as her chest rose and fell quickly. Отец… wasn't moving. He was absolutely still… could he be….

…no…

His torso was rising and falling. He was alive…

She crept a little closer on her hands and knees. His head was red with blood, the bottle having shattered from the impact. Looking down she realised there were several deep cuts on her hand that were oozing blood sluggishly. Her vision blurred as she stared down at her battered and freshly bloodied body. She felt numb, inside and out. Everything she was feeling felt distant, like a passing breeze.

On shaking legs she stood, using the wall of support, leaving bloody red handprints on the cold concrete walls in her wake. Slowly she edged her way outside of the storage room, into the main body of the tavern and towards the back of the building where there was a door leading out into the courtyard behind the tavern.

She couldn't stay here…she wouldn't.

Opening the metal latch she pulled the heavy wooden door open to be hit with a sudden blast of cold wind that made her instantly recoil back with a shriek. Outside was a blur of darkness with pale sheets of ice falling from the sky, illuminated by the one tiny lamp outside the door. Beyond the small amount of light emitted was darkness. And in that darkness awaited freedom.

She wasn't even aware she'd taken the first few steps into the shin high snow until a violent shiver ran through her whole body. She knew it was cold, she could feel the ice biting at her exposed skin of her legs arms and face but she didn't care.

She didn't care.

She was going to get as far away from this…this…nightmare. Even if it killed her.

And so she started to walk.

The sound of the wind howling above her had long since become white noise to her. All she could hear was the ever-constant groan and whine of the gale curling and swirling around her, like a kind of dance.

The cold seemed to have burrowed itself so far inside her it was in her bones, making her joints cry with every move she made through the deep snow. She didn't know how long she'd been walking, but she could no longer see the lights of the town in the distance or the tavern behind her. Above her she'd occasionally get a glimpse of the moon through the clouds, bright and shinning, like a beacon, surrounded by bright little specks. Stars.

Her breathing had become shallower with every step she took, the frigid air stabbing her lungs with each breath. She'd stopped shivering a few hundred steps ago, that was when she could feel the cold. Now it was just a… deep hollow ache inside her that thudded dully.

She walked until she lost count of her steps…until she couldn't feel her legs moving anymore.

Her breath puffed out of her chapped lips to form clouds in front of her, which she could see dimly.

She reached out to grab the little clouds, hoping to catch of of them in her fist, but…her hand just went straight through them. She frowned at the rapidly disappearing clouds, swiping at them again but it just made them disappear more quickly.

Everything was becoming…fuzzy. Her foot caught on the back of her ankle and she stumbled then fell with a heavy thump into the snow. She tried to get up; to keep on moving but her…her legs wouldn't do what she wanted. It was as though there was no strength left in her body. Stiffly she focused on curling in on herself, bringing her hands to cup around her mouth to breath what little heat she had left onto them.

This…this was good. Better even. Well no, death isn't usually the preferred option, but it…it was inevitable, really. Honestly she's surprised she even managed this far without…without…

…it's so cold...

She was tired…tired of cold…tired of trying…

Her fingers twitched and slowly…almost cautiously…a familiar little light appeared between her palms…glowing softly, like the stars she'd briefly seen. The little star…made the pain not so bad...

…she couldn't feel the cold anymore…in fact…

…it was a little easier to breath…

…tired…

…soft…

…warmth enveloped her and she was weightless.

sSo...that wasn't all that pretty right? Well it has to be gritty. Sorry.

Things do get better for her I promise!she will be alright!

If you find it interesting, please read and review I really would like to hear your thoughts, just please be kind. If not then thank you for simply reading it :)

hope you didn't find it too aaaagh-ish.

elz

x


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